


Desolation

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Both alone without each other, Going through the motions, Grief, Lonliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will tries to weather the storm.<br/>--<br/>“I miss you.” He mumbles, a tired, fraut, sentiment. “But I hate you.” More mutters. “You ruin the routine and I don’t have anything else. You should probably go.” </p>
<p>“But you have invited me.” Hannibal’s eyes are on him now, he knows without looking at him, big and guileless, shining in the firelight as though he’s real. But real Hannibal would never sit on the floor, and this is only the last vestiges of a ghost that probably never existed at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desolation

The storm blows hard against the small house, tucked away at the edge of nowhere. It’s not a hurricane, not yet, but the winds are fierce, screeching, and the floorboards tremble. It’s not a hurricane, but that matters little, the panes of glass rattling loudly, invisible hands scrabbling and scratching against them, it still needs to be weathered. 

He always thinks he sees him, in times like these, when the gouts of rain pour down, obscure the clarity of sight as the fog swirls low and thick across the sands, the blunted edges of everything as grey washes out vision. Sees him walk the same steps Will takes so often, when the dogs run all around him, or only stands there, eyes on the house, seeking a way in. It used to be granted, painfully easy entrance, the curve of a plaid covered shoulder hovering over his counters, shiny shoes stepping into his line of sight beneath a motor. But time has built locks and it’s harder for him these days. Will is not sorry. Nor does he hope, when the storm rolls in, and everything shifts to murky, to glimpse him waiting, always waiting, until the brightness of emergent sun fades him away. 

Maybe that’s why he’d chosen Florida, this corner of empty earth, it’s hard to imagine Hannibal in the sun, his fine cloths steeped in sand, the creep of swampy air around him. But Will’s mind has always exceeded expectation and the image starts to build for him before he can end it, the crooked edge of a smile, Hannibal calm, reaching a hand out for him and - No. The figure has come closer with the fantasies. It’s some indeterminate time, he’s not quite sure who he is anymore, but his name is Will Graham, and Hannibal Lecter is not allowed into his home. He wonders idly if a day has passed where he hasn’t thought of him, _since_ \- The answer loosing a bark of laughter from his throat, drowned out by the gale. He wonders if there’s even been an hour.

His days have narrowed to simple points, a checklist not to stray from, easy, execution is easy, as long as he just has to breathe and not really live, he can function for that. He wakes up, ignores the ache in his stomach, ignores the strains in his muscles, showers, forces himself to shower, forgoes shaving but insists on breakfast. Dog food for the dogs, an hour past. Good. He keeps the shoes by the door so he doesn’t have to hunt for them, a reminder to check if there’s enough pop tarts in the cabinet to go another couple weeks, frozen dinners in the freezer. He eats, but won’t cook. The sight of a knife, in his own hand, on tv, even in a fucking magazine, turns his stomach. If there isn’t he adds, go to the grocery store to his mental list of limited activities, and exhales that there will be something to do to fill another afternoon. He likes deciding between Strawberry and Cinnamon Swirl, that’s very fulfilling. 

Then the dogs go out, come back, good to have dogs, dogs take a lot, especially twelve of them, a lot of time and a lot of dogs, more checks, more breaths, more minutes passed. The whiskey sits, always ready on the counter, but some days now, slowly, he can forgo it until later, can at least handle the morning without letting the fire burn his mind. And there’s work, occasionally, on and off, restoring boats, cars, whatever someone manages to dig up and brings over muddy and shattered. It goes to Will if he’s up to it, and the irony isn’t lost on him, not even like this, clean it, check it, put it back together, whole and ready, even the toughest projects eventually ending up in some kind of useable form. He won’t give up on things, Will won’t, won’t throw them away because they’re broken. The job is enough for pop tarts and he’s pretty sure the FBI deposits a sizable check in his account every month, but he has no idea how long that will last for, or how much it is, doesn’t even care, really. The house is paid for, he thinks that too, and as long as there’s enough for the dogs, he doesn’t ask questions. It’s bad of him to forget the bills though, for them, it’s bad of him, to leave the dogs in the dark, because the mail piles up and he won’t look at it, can’t even sort it until he’s drunk out of his mind and something in him must have some kind of survival instinct left in it, because eventually the envelopes demanding payment surface, and even more eventually, he pays them. The lights come back on. The dogs pleased around him. He’s not sure he can even really tell the difference. But he’s checked the the box on his list, and that’s good. He lives for that. 

But the most prominent item on that list is Don’t Think About Hannibal. Which is hard, because even just putting it on the list, that already means thought has happened. But he needs to remind himself, would write it onto every part of his body, leave it on every wall, if the marker didn’t turn to flesh and scar before his eyes. Because if not, even still, he’ll turn to his right, mouth open to address the other, so lost in his thoughts that he’s forgotten altogether they’re not actually in Wolf Trap right now, that Hannibal isn’t laughing lowly at him, eyes pleased that he exists at all, marveling in each other. So easy to step into the whirls of his brain and lose himself. So don’t think about it - don’t, not in any capacity is important to remember. An important box that always go unchecked, but one day, maybe, one day - he’ll forget the accented voice that curls across his skin, forget what it was like to be so consumed that he forgot how to be himself and became only a part of some absurd whole which is now halved. And they’re both alone without each other, but Will can’t even think of the fact that Hannibal still exists somewhere, hard enough to consider him as he was. It’d been the worst at the mental hospital, excuse him, the retreat, where he’d been sure he saw the other all the time, every corner, every breath, bloody or holding a knife, terror in his heart. But now it’s only a task just like everything else. 

On days like this though, he starts a fire if only to have something to do with his hands, all the other distractions made impossible, washed away, with the rain. Tries to breathe and keep focus, think about anything else, as his trembling hands raise the whiskey to his lips. One glass and then another and then another. He’s already dressed and ate and the dogs are secure and he’s sitting, so he did that, and now, if he can just lose himself until it’s time to go to bed, to pull back the sheets, put on the pajamas and collapse, maybe the sun will be out tomorrow. 

The minutes blur with the howling of the wind.

“Hello Will.”

Hannibal is hazy as he forms around him, and Will only hums in reply, watches as the other folds himself down neatly to sit on the floor, brushing the edges of Will’s legs where he sprawls. 

“We have not talked in a long time.”

No, Will shakes his head, the drowsiness of the alcohol in his veins, the golden, muted, light thrown from the fire, he forgets to feel panic, and only exhales. So long since he’s spoken to anyone at all. He knows, somewhere that this is a dream, a haze, a nightmare, but he only presses his head back against the cushion, too tired to fight just now. 

Don’t think about Hannibal, his mind whispers, but the rain sounds so cold outside, and the dogs snuffle in agitated sleep, and in the half doze, it’s warm, easy, easy to just give in.

“I miss you.” He mumbles, a tired, fraut, sentiment. “But I hate you.” More mutters. “You ruin the routine and I don’t have anything else. You should probably go.” 

“But you have invited me.” Hannibal’s eyes are on him now, he knows without looking at him, big and guileless, shining in the firelight as though he’s real. But real Hannibal would never sit on the floor, and this is only the last vestiges of a ghost that probably never existed at all. 

His fingers bring the drink up to his lips again and he watches the embers instead. “And you’ve never been able to be selfless enough to leave me alone.” Quiet murmurs, hand hesitating to unwrap, pushing out towards Hannibal, stopping himself. There will only be air anyway and whatever his brain can conjure. This will send him back if he does it, two weeks at least, and he’s already put in the effort to breathe through that time. Not enough in him to have to do it again. 

“I miss you as well.” Hannibal’s voice curves around him, the sentiment of ache, the curl of pain that was present the last time they spoke, that rang in the one letter Will managed to read before he threw up and removed, reading letters from Hannibal, from any kind of okayed activity. “I would see you, if I could.” 

“You would destroy me.” 

Hannibal is silent for that one, but he shakes his head. 

“You destroy me anyway.” 

“I have never wished for your destruction.”

Will snorts at that, tired, but somehow the rough tongue of speaking with Hannibal wakes something up in him, makes him feel more like himself than the dedicated zombie he’s become. But he can’t have that, there’s nothing there beyond the last dregs of sarcasm and overwhelming pain, the edges cut and searching that are better left numbed. 

“No, you’re right, I destroyed myself.” Darkness too then, he almost forgot, along with the anguish, the reminders of what he’s capable of, what he became. The blood on his hands, the stone in his heart, the twisting warp of monstrosity that he wishes he could blame on Hannibal, but was only ever hiding beneath his bones. Idly, he wonders if maybe this time, when the glass is thrown there will be a satisfying thunk of flesh being hit, but knows only the shattering will come, and he hasn’t put the dogs away. He stills himself, turns away. 

“Goodbye Doctor Lecter.” He murmurs before anything else can be said, turns onto himself, knees to his chest, where the scar throbs. 

Hannibal doesn’t go. Remains, as the glass rattles and the rain pounds, murmurs his apologies and his regrets, doesn’t dare to say love, but Will hears it. Hears the voice until the whiskey takes him far enough away to where there’s nothing at all. 

In the morning, he wakes, and there’s a blanket on him. He’s confused, for a thread of a moment, somewhere so very far and quiet, the agony of serenity that enwraps him, low murmurs to each other before sleep, fingers curving through his hair. But the sun streams in, light to blow away the cobwebs, to thicken the ache in his skull. 

Rise. He murmurs to himself, dress, eat. 

Do Not Think of Hannibal.


End file.
